The Absent Noble
by theroleofalifetime
Summary: **Won't be updated often; I'll try to be once a month** -I'm American, never ACTUALLY been to London- Before Reichenbach Fall Enola Holmes was now alone. Fleeing from her brothers, the famous Sherlock and Mycroft, she goes to London in search of their missing mother. Unfortunately, she may have ended up in a mess too large for this fourteen year old. But she's Enola Holmes.
1. East End of London, August, 2011

Circles of cheap artificial light surrounded each electric lamp on the narrow road. Grimy merchants and cast-off beggars sat in the shadows of the light, close enough to see, but far enough to judge for trouble. Besides those on business, and those too young to understand, no one interrupts those lights. A black clad stranger is indistinguishable from the dark shadows of the alleyways, clinging to the dark and damp walls of each building. Her boots barely clack on the chipped sidewalk, giving her a ghostlike quality.

A veil hangs low over her face, out of fashion but not unusual, and therefore not eye-catching. That's what she wants. For she is hunted, while she also seeks. Her wide eyes hide behind the veil, searching the streets for hope and for danger. They see neither.

Broken glass lines the pavement, catching on the occasional bare foot of a child playing in the dark street. Their screeches of pain and humor jab her ears, but she doesn't mind. Children will be children, wherever they may be. Stuffy men in pristine suits stroll arm-in-arm with drunken women, their laughter and clacking of shoes illuminate their apathy towards the people that grovel below them, and for a moment the stranger tightens her fists. Then she releases. She mustn't get involved.

Sweeping past the snobs, she listens once more. Drunken laughter and shouts echo from the fluorescent-lighted bars, along with muffled groans from the nearby alleyways. High-pitched voices call from street corners, appealing to every well-dressed individual. One of them, a haggard blond with a low-cut velvet dressed poses as a black Sedan pulls over. Her smeared lips smile, though her haunted eyes don't. A fellow prostitute was murdered not far away, the second in a week. She was naturally worried. A small prayer formed on the strangers lips, for overall safety and for her future.

She marched on.

"Oi, little lady, why not join me for a pint?" a drunken oaf boasted between bars at her. "We could get to know each other."

Ignoring the man, she continues on her path. No one must see her, for they would surely take advantage of her. Not to mention that they could be a part of her hunter's undercover agency. No, they wouldn't know her. Absurd, but not impossible. Never impossible.

She doesn't belong here, not on this street more that the city itself. It shouldn't feel comforting, but it provides a sense of familiarity for the stranger. She will never belong anywhere, not truly. Not ever.

So she clings to the shadows, deeper and deeper into the center of London.

She walks on.

Alone.


	2. You will do very well on your own, Enola

**I don't own the Enola Holmes Mysteries nor Sherlock.**

**Enola belongs to Nancy Springer and Sherlock belongs to the marvelous BBC.**

**If you didn't notice, I'm sort of doing it in the same way the actual book does it, and I have it next to me as a reference. I'd like reviews if you'll give them. Anonymous, not anonymous, give me constructive criticism!**

**Like I said before, I won't be updating regularly nor frequently. **

*****I MAY EDIT THESE AS I GO ALONG. I'LL TRY TO TELL YOU AT THE START OF EACH CHAPTER, BUT I AM FORGETFUL. IF THERE'S AN ELEMENT/PERSON/FACT YOU DON'T RECOGNIZE, GO BACK AND REREAD. IF IT'S NOT THERE, THEN TELL ME!*****

**Last, but not least, enjoy!**

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When having an unusual name, such as Enola, one starts to wonder what went through their mother's head when naming them.

Was it because it was unique? Did she hear a song with music sounding like eeeeeeeeeennnnnnnnnnnooooooo oollllllllllaaaaaaaaaaaaa? Was it a sign from heaven?

In this utterly boring reality, there was no mystery; my mother simply loved ciphers, and therefore Enola backwards is alone.

But what did she mean by alone? Like flowers, did they have an underlying feeling? Alone as in solitude? Alone in thought? Alone in beauty, whatever little I have? Alone in spirit? Alone in freedom? Did she feel alone?

Alone in the house, is what I felt, regardless of my name.

In fact, alone is what I was, since my mother had so obviously left me yesterday on my eighteenth birthday. Well, Happy Birthday to me.

As a whole my birthday wasn't _all_ bad. I didn't even know she had run away (for sure) until today. I celebrated my birthday with Mr. and Mrs. Lane, our housekeepers/butlers/cook/sometimes teacher/etc. They're a nice couple, and we reminisced about the rare"old times" that we had, or the ones Mrs. Lane falsely remembered.

As I said, Mum left before the whole procession, leaving me with a hand-made cipher booklet and a drawing kit. The book was absurdly titled _The Meanings of Flowers: Including also Notes upon the Messages Conveyed by Fans, Handkerchiefs, Candle Wax and Beeswax, and Postage Stamps. _Don't ask me why my mum decided to call it that, she was a bit eccentric. She gave me a cipher booklet when I _despised_ ciphers.

She named me _Enola_, for crying out loud!

Nonetheless, the drawing kit was nice, filled with paper, pencils, a hand-sharpener, some erasers, chalk and charcoal, and a few pastels. Arranged neatly into a unfoldable easel, it was a lovely gift.

I actually admired drawing and occasionally, when she allowed me to, went with Mum on her walks, to draw lilies and daffodils in the bright meadows we walked in. They always had the literal perfect pose for me to draw them in. I was almost in a fantasy, where my life was perfect with no responsibilities.

I thought she was going there.

I _nearly_ thought she was going to pick me flowers. Now _that_ was absurd.

Either way, I let her go. We rarely went on those walks together, and I knew she had other priorities than a birthday. Something more important than a celebration that only happens once a year, evidently.

I woke up the next morning to discover she hadn't come back. Something was amiss, so I quickly got dressed and told Mrs. Lane that I was going out "searching," as I usually did.

It was really fun when you got into it. You climb trees, or hike through a small forest while finding tiny little knickknacks, or forgotten tokens that past travelers had seen. Once I found a pocket watch from the late 1800's, and pretended I was a disadvantaged girl, forced to be feminine when all I wanted to do was be as priviledged as a male. Then I hid from society, fleeing to the gypsies.

Today I wasn't playing.

I threw a light rain jacket over my t-shirt and capris, eyeing the weather outside a window on the wall of my bedroom. The pale stencils on the white walls contrasted to the gloomy weather. I chose my puddle-splashing boots instead of my usual sneakers, and strolled downstairs.

"I'll be going, Mrs. Lane. I'll be back soon, just... looking," I told her. Mrs. Lane just looked at me sadly, giving me an sympathetic expression.

She thinks my mother was dead.

She's _not_ dead. She cannot be.

_Enola, think logically. She could be dead, _my left-brain instructed.

My right brain didn't agree, _But she could be alive._

_Well, just don't think about that right now,_ I told myself, gaining control over my thoughts. I pushed away all feeling as I simultaneously pushed open the door.

It was time to use my "Holmes" brain.


End file.
